


All Bets are Off

by Anonymous



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Sakusa Kiyoomi, Come as Lube, Hand Job, M/M, Masturbation, Non-Linear Narrative, Semi-Clothed Sex, Suits, Top Miya Atsumu, hotsumu, lazy doggy, life is a gamble, striptease, volleyball monthly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-14 09:40:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29790006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Over the years, Sakusa Kiyoomi takes several gambles he knows he will lose.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 24
Kudos: 245
Collections: Anonymous, Bottomi Week 2021





	All Bets are Off

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to installment four of my sakuatsu smut, written for [day 2 of Bottomi Week 2021: Suits](https://twitter.com/bottomiweek)
> 
> since I’m still on anon you can find my other explicit sakuatsu works here:  
> [TMx3](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25787083) / [WSWM](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27443362) / [TCTC](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27567103) / [SUS](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29811360)
> 
> you can also [bug me on twitter (18+ only)](https://twitter.com/asakuatsu) / [graphic for this fic](https://twitter.com/aSAKUATSU/status/1366547689278685190)

_ How exactly did I get here? _

Kiyoomi squirms in place, chafing the silk of his pants against a stiff hotel mattress and amplifying discomfort to maximum. Music far from his preference blasts directly through a phone speaker, loud and raw, contrary to the calming tunes usually transmitted through his earbuds.

Said phone lands on the lone table in the room, its smiling owner conveying no regret as he parts from it. Bodily movements begin to follow the song’s lyricless sensuality, traversing across carpet in exaggerated steps, before stopping at the absolute center of Kiyoomi’s vantage point.

A series of scenes play out in slow motion, each more delusional than the next, and each prompting the simplest of questions.

Miya Atsumu is craning his neck at the oddest angles.

_ Why? _

Miya Atsumu is loosening his tie with one hand.

_ How? _

Miya Atsumu has some damn sexy fingers.

_ What? _

Miya Atsumu no longer wears a tie.

_ Shit. _

It’s the first time Kiyoomi regards the skill level of his setter’s hands in a different context - a dangerous one, at that, for the removal of one piece of fabric only forecasts many more. Who knew that five fingers coiling around a knot would be as proficient as when they lay perfectly flat, awaiting a ball? Certainly not Kiyoomi. And no, he is certainly not wishing for that same technique and agility to be applied to his own clothes.

The red tie bunches as it hits the ground, a sacrificed hero awaiting the rest of its comrades. Kiyoomi focuses upon the crumpled form for a mere second, the desire to hang it up properly gnawing at his instincts.

“Eyes up  _ here, _ Omi-kun.” The husky voice demands his attention. He skims past a shirt collar stained by burgundy, arriving exactly where Miya intends.

“I wasn’t ev--”

“I know ya weren’t. But show now, clean up later.”

_ \--even looking at your dick. _ The cut-off words finish as a thought, though Miya had already read him clear as day, just as he does play after play.

Unfortunately for him, what’s also clear as day is the fervent intention in golden eyes, threatening to take Kiyoomi apart like another accessory.

_ How exactly did I get here? _

-*-

“Sakusa Kiyoomi!”

The shout resounds across the Black Jackals locker room, echoing even louder than usual throughout the recently emptied space. At the end of their shared row of lockers, Miya’s disheveled, post-practice look makes him a worthy candidate for a makeover program, even though Kiyoomi knows he cleans up more than nicely.

Miya’s attitude this very moment, however, is another story.

“What the fuck’s the matter with you?” Kiyoomi doesn’t admit to missing his usual nickname - doesn’t admit how the lack thereof is fueling his dismay.

Miya marches forward, an opened magazine flapping in his grip. “Is this shit true?”

The glossy papers splatter on the bench between them, messy in both landing and noise. Exposed to both their eyes is one bold headline, and one terrible accompanying photograph Kiyoomi knows he never gave permission for.

**_VC Kanagawa in Trade Talks with Black Jackals’ Sakusa_ **

“How did they--” He tries to tame disbelief, but quickly determines it futile. “Yeah, I’ve been fielding an offer from them. So what?”

“So  _ what? _ So  _ what’s wrong with us?” _ Miya points and repoints at the offending page, adding emphasis to his frustration. “We finished this season with the best fuckin’ record in the league! Why are ya even thinkin’ about leavin’?”

Kiyoomi turns at an instant, faking an attempt to organize his already-impeccable locker. “Because I’m an adult, Miya. And I can make my own decisions.”

The ensuing minute is so silent that it’s as if Miya had evaporated from the room, but Kiyoomi can feel the penetration of a stare upon his shoulder. A part of him deep within trembles, not out of fear but out of anticipation. 

_ “Adult, _ huh?” Miya huffs after a long while. “Do ya gamble like an adult, too, Omi-kun?”

He shoots back a stern look. “No. I don’t gamble at all.”  _ Not literally, at least. _

“Well, I dare ya to make a bet with me.” Despite the confidence in speech and stance, a strange daze fogs Miya’s eyes. “If ya lose - stay on the damn team.”

“That’s...not how any of this works.”

“Oh yeah? Yer gonna back down from one of  _ my _ challenges? That’s a first.” Clouded irises give a giant backwards roll within vibrant white. “Don’t forget - I’m still winnin’ in service aces.”

The reminder infuriates Kiyoomi to a degree, and he swings the locker shut in a near slam. “Why are you being so insufferable?”

“Because I’d never let y--one of my best hitters go that easily.”

The slip-up is quickly caught and quickly fixed, but the change itself elevates suspicion.

It’s not as if Kiyoomi had been the first - when Hinata had taken off, he remembers Miya’s lame jokes about not changing citizenship like Oikawa had. There was none of the tension present in the room now, with an upset Miya looming so close, willing to risk an unknown amount to keep him in Osaka.

It feels strange to be wanted like this. Strangely good.

“Fine, Miya. What’s the bet?” He gives in to that moment of weakness - far from the first when it comes to this particular teammate.

A glint flashes past hooded eyes, prompting Kiyoomi to immediately regret his question.

“If I can get ya to sleep with me within ten days, then ya won’t leave.”

All sensation and emotion drain from amped-up nerves.  _ “The fuck?” _

“Exactly, Omi-kun. Ten days - and if we do ‘the fuck,’ then I win.”

Kiyoomi stumbles backward, the only direction available. There’s terrible imbalance as blood rushes to exactly two parts of his body, the first being his face.

“Wha--what makes you think I would ever agree to something like this?” His head shakes furiously, attempting to redirect the flow of his arteries.

“Because.” A foxgrin aligns with a confession, tilting all circumstances in Miya’s favor. “I know ya hide my two cover issues for  _ Volleyball Monthly _ in yer nightstand drawer.”

-*-

It’s true.

He has the images dated January 2016 and March 2020 memorized, courtesy of one impulse purchase at a Tokyo convenience store, then another many months later in Osaka. There had been interesting stories on other volleyball matters, that’s all - or so he had reasoned during each walk of shame to the cashier. But once the privacy of four walls confine him with the pages, Kiyoomi thumbs through columns of text with little concern, while his fingerprints mar the many images featuring blond hair and a bulky build.

**_Miya Atsumu, Rookie of the Year._ ** The 2016 highlight announces.

**_Miya Atsumu, V. League’s Most Eligible Bachelor._ ** The 2020 piece crowns, and dares to feature a few topless versions of its king.

Both times, Kiyoomi had bet on himself to be strong enough to resist.

Both times, he had lost.

The cost always ends up being his bedsheets, their rich dyes fading faster than usual after many,  _ many _ extra washes.

He has seen more than his share of Miya’s muscles in the locker room, can practically tell when the setter works out two more times than usual during a week. Like the still photos, the exact bulges and tendon strains have seared themselves into Kiyoomi’s head, and Miya has ironically turned from nighttime distraction to daytime focal point.

On the court, he studies those same stretches of bicep and forearms, determining with little effort whether or not a toss is intended for him.

But tonight, here is Miya in the flesh, unpredictable, maneuvering his body against music like he’s on the most steamy photoshoot known to man. Arms fold in different arrangements, guiding one set of fingers through cornsilk hair, and the other down the middle of a torso. Those ample hips refuse to quit their gyrations -  _ oh god _ \- each twirl matching perfectly with that racy rhythm, pledging a performance only available in dreams.

A red velvet jacket soon joins the tie, its plummet an afterthought as Kiyoomi trains on maroon-stained white, the sheerness previewing luscious skin. Two hands reconnect, and cufflinks unfasten, setting free fabric holding the fortunes of the dress shirt itself. 

Yes, he has seen more than his share. But just like certain unspoken acts in his bedroom, this particular show is reserved for Kiyoomi and Kiyoomi alone.

To his horror, the star meanders forward until he’s an arm’s length away, positioned right between two parted knees.

“You…” Kiyoomi hisses, discomfort mounting down below.

A haughty scoff precedes Miya’s snark, all sing-song-like as the inflections follow blaring notes. “Ya want me to stop?”

“No.” Unfortunately, the stir in his groin proves more stubborn than the two of them combined. “Either way, I won’t lose tonight.”

“Sure ya won’t, Omi-kun. Ya still have nine days to go, after all.”

Nine days to go, and eight buttons on Miya’s shirt, lined from collar to hem.

“This one first?” A finger taps at the topmost disc, coyly requesting instruction before dropping all the way down. “Or...this one?”

He remembers Miya wearing low-rise jeans in one of the 2020 images, the juts of his hipbone exquisite against the edges of his abdomen.

“Th--the bottom one.” Memory trumps, and Kiyoomi croaks out the priority of his desire.

Without hesitation, the requested button slips through its designated slot, followed by another, then another. The music reaches a crescendo as Miya’s shirt halves, like a gate welcoming hungry eyes to a premiere event. Paired with the backdrop of biting beats, a literal bite catches the setter’s bottom lip, all Machiavellian-like in its slant. It’s unfortunate proof of his omniscience - that all-knowing recognition of what will topple Kiyoomi the most.

There are tugs at loosening fabric, pulling at tucked-in material with measured consideration for tears. As everything separates, Kiyoomi clenches the duvet below him for dear life, exhausting all his willpower to not engage, much less surrender.

But his resolve dissolves, once the tarnished shirt also disappears from view. There’s skin,  _ so _ much skin, taut and spotless and beckoning for onyx eyes to devour. Miya is built like the embodiment of everything sinful, and has long been the object of Kiyoomi’s transgressions. Like in more than one version of his fantasies, arms rise until wrists lock behind that blond head, nudging strapping pecs forward into the spotlight. They then retreat back, rolling an athletic torso to the same rhythm as Kiyoomi’s struggling lungs, drawing their movements in sync.

The mating dance continues for a lost amount of time, before Miya pirouettes in place - far too easily for someone still in wingtip shoes. The expanse of his broad back becomes the main attraction, baring a shape Kiyoomi is accustomed to from the backline. But there is no uniform to conceal the bunching of muscles, and no disciplined posture to prevent a spine’s calculated curves. He can see the outline of every vertebrae, flexing from one side to the other, shoving what follows the tailbone directly into Kiyoomi’s face.

Velvet snugly rounds that arch of an ass, its texture far more attractive than breathable black cotton. But it’s Kiyoomi’s breath that ceases when Miya makes quick work of his belt buckle -  _ click, click _ \- and drags thin leather from its confining loops.

Hips spiral in a roundabout fashion, making a point about size - both front  _ and _ back - when the slacks remain in place without support.

Before the fact sinks in, Miya’s fingers curl into his waistband, towing downward in the slowest journey ever traveled. Soon, more crimson pools at their feet, but for once, all of Kiyoomi’s intentions detour from the urge to clean. Housed beneath the second layer of black, stretchable fabric are those thighs that demand their own variable in the Golden Ratio, their own definition within hourglass. 

Shoes come off, socks toe off, and all Kiyoomi wants is to get off. He whimpers, riveted but helpless, the heat between his own thighs unbearable.

Suddenly, Miya halts and steps away, pulling a chair from another part of the room. He sets it sideways before settling down in reverse, hands clasping the wooden back while that enticing ass pops outward. Another series of body rolls commence, faster and more extreme this time, directing hips to air hump the seat to high noon.

There is nowhere safe to place his eyes, but Miya’s teasing expression is somehow lewder than his roving figure, so Kiyoomi forces attachment to the latter. It’s then that he spies a lined pocket at the side of those briefs. In another scenario, it may fit bills of yen cheering on this performance, but there’s only a peek of a foiled corner, signaling a semblance of preparation.

_ Ya want me to stop? _ The condom’s presence repeats an earlier question.

_ No. _ Kiyoomi wets his lips.  _ I want to be that chair. _

As if on cue, the background track changes to something even slower, its dragged-out bassline like molasses sweetening their atmosphere. Miya transitions to treating the piece of furniture like a lover, embracing its every part whiel grinding shamelessly against the innocence of its cushion.

In the midst of dizzying fever, Kiyoomi notes to give housekeeping some specific instructions - for their own good.

Before the thought finishes, a shadow imposes, and Miya abruptly wanders close again,  _ so _ close - all unpleasant cologne and unclothed self, far more stripped down than any photo in Kiyoomi’s possession. Bare arms spider around his seated form, careful to not grant nerves any solidity, and only ushering in a contactless juxtaposition of their necks.

Hot breaths tingle and mingle - but Miya snaps back right as Kiyoomi tries to affix their lips.

“Uh-uh.” He scolds, and the red tie magically reappears in his retreating hand. “Follow the rules ya set yerself, Omi-kun.”

-*-

_ Day one...or is it technically already day two? _ Kiyoomi fails to keep track. He only sees red as he settles against outdated wallpaper, the color rendering every other shade lit by the hotel ballroom chandelier stale. 

He’s one hour into the end-of-season V. League banquet in Tokyo - the one and only mass-person event on his yearly schedule - clutching a glass of mediocre wine.

_ Sorry, mandatory. _ Meian had at least been apologetic. 

His suit is vintage as a euphemism, a brother’s-hand-me-down as a technicality. But high quality silk is meant to be worn over many years, and its midnight shade allows him to blend in with the dozens of other gigantic body frames, all donning similar hues.

Across the black-clad room, that flash of red resurfaces, an alarming detail scraping at the most scandalous corners of his memories.

At the tail end of something spoken towards Ojiro Aran, Miya finishes with a hearty laugh. As soon as his conversation partner turns away, the honeyed glance shifts towards Kiyoomi with readable intent. He toys with the olive of his martini, lifting it from a vodka soak into an alluring suckle.

Shutting his eyes, Kiyoomi takes an extra long swig of his drink. But the liquid barely halves before that dreaded voice rings, suddenly much closer in proximity.

“Is my seduction workin’?”

He barely tames the choke, and reopened eyes unleash displeasure in a thousand forms. Miya embodies alert and danger in crimson velvet, tailored to his every angle, annoyingly perfect stitches along every seam.

Kiyoomi has always enjoyed him too much in this color.

And yet, trapped beneath dual lapels, the white of that shirt is almost too pure, fitted yet completely unfitting for someone of such character.

Propelling forward, Kiyoomi foregoes the wall as a crutch, attempting to dash past without incident. But disorientation impacts his notable balance, and in a circumstance never seen on the court, their two bodies knock together in a failure of communication, reshaping what remains in his glass into spilled paint.

“Shit. Sorry.” He watches expanding red upon what had been immaculate, and can only form a halfhearted apology.

To Kiyoomi’s chagrin, Miya’s smirk grows even more suggestive. “What now, Omi-kun? Gonna invite me to yer room so ya can clean me up?”

“Go to your own room.” He steps back to decry.

“Didn’t bring my key.” The excuse comes swift, nudging at Kiyoomi’s own insincerity. “Now go on, invite me.”

“So I can lose this bet within 48 hours?”

“No. So ya can finally get what ya want. Ya must enjoy me in a get-up like this, no?”

_ He wore this on purpose. _

It’s a dangerous discovery, turning tides and upping risk. But all gambles are rooted in challenge, and none are ones Kiyoomi wishes to lose. Since his rookie year, the idea of outplaying each other has defined their tumultuous partnership, with conflict as betting chips and success on the court as joint winnings. Tonight, challenge simply takes on another form within Kiyoomi’s head, presenting a choice of losing to Miya - but maybe,  _ maybe _ winning Atsumu.

That prospect of loss tempts stronger than ever, so he puts one last stake in resistance. “Fine. I’ll invite you on one condition - you’re not allowed to touch me.”

Miya laughs, not caring to make any of his doubts subtle. “Whatever ya say.”

-*-

_ A miscalculation is how I got here. _

In retrospect, it’s obvious that Miya had created a striptease playlist in the elevator while their suited selves had stood at opposite corners. To Kiyoomi’s slight irritation, the blond hadn’t paid attention to him throughout the 10-floor ride, instead focusing on supposed amusements upon his phone.

_ Texts or memes, _ he had assumed, unsuspecting.

But the second Kiyoomi chose the edge of his bed as temporary settlement, he had exposed vulnerability, and Miya’s finger had been ready to tap “Play.”

Now, minutes later, he’s trapped in that same spot, with Miya’s tie looped around his nape, tugging him towards perilous territory.

The setter stands spread eagle, his crotch careful to avoid contact with Kiyoomi’s locked knees. Fisted hands maneuver the band of smooth silk from both ends, sliding it provocatively back and forth, a conductor still following the background tune.

Kiyoomi whimpers at the sensation, his mouth watering at the chest accosting him. If he leans just a few more degrees, he could plant teeth where they wish to belong, but a single taste will no doubt snowball into defeat.

This is a situation of his own making, a bet of his own acceptance - but Miya shedding all clothes has become the ultimate wager, surpassing expected odds while leaving Kiyoomi’s endurance bankrupt. 

“Please...” Still clothed, but without dignity, he gazes up into that pair of beguiling golds.

Miya tows him forward another bit, smirk already triumphant. “Please what?”

“Please...touch me...”

“Just touch?” Obedience immediate but selective, a groin rolls harshly into Kiyoomi’s bulge. “Just this?”

Past whimpers louden into a desperate groan, eclipsing the ongoing music many times in volume.

“I know ya want me  _ so _ badly, Omi-kun.” Miya bends down, his whisper a hot breeze heating the helix of Kiyoomi’s ear. “But I dunno which way.”

From a single cartilage, the warmth spreads at lightning speed, incinerating countless nerves and cells in one fell swoop.

_ “Please…”  _ The word rises from within the raging burn.

“Please  _ what?” _

Kiyoomi charges, jaw widening in hunger, landing the long-awaited bite upon smooth flesh. And as Miya releases a moan rivaling his, Kiyoomi goes all-in, despite having no more chances to win.

“Please  _ fuck me already, _ Miya.”

-*-

_ Please ______ already, Miya. _

The phrase iterates and reiterates ever since Kiyoomi’s first practice with the Jackals, its replaceable portion changing on the daily - some voiced, others not.  _ Shut up. Shower. Kiss me. Fuck me. _ They’re the unspoken clauses in a three-year contract, signed solely because of strong team stats - or so he had reasoned to himself.

E-mails and calls had flooded his phone throughout senior year, reaching zenith after his own MVP cover story had released. The photoshoot had been awkward, the results even more so. Kiyoomi possesses none of the flair that his old rival flaunts so casually, and even Coach Foster had failed to hide reservations at their final meeting.

“Our publicist will work with you on those, once you join the team.”

Coming to Osaka had been a gamble, waging confidence against self-control. Miya in-person is a different type of attractive than in his photos, those matured angles and revamped hair constantly threatening to distract. Some of his arrogant charm had carried over from high school, so while their verbal skirmishes adopt innocent variations of  _ please shut up  _ and _ please shower, _ Kiyoomi’s innermost thoughts keep veering salacious.

That magazine from 2016 still lives near his bed, after all.

But no matter the heat level of their exchanges, nothing ever overheats in the way Kiyoomi hopes. Miya flirts, certainly, but even those teases feel equally distributed across teammates and fans. Contrary to what lives on those glossy pages, he isn’t Kiyoomi’s alone to behold, and his real gazes never look back in one dedicated direction.

The situation comes to a head two years into Kiyoomi’s tenure, with Miya’s crowning as Most Eligible Bachelor dominating every corner of social media. Overnight, his fame with both sexes escalates beyond control, as those topless photos intimately fuse themselves into Kiyoomi’s - and he’s sure many others’ - private routines. But in the long run, the added voices in the stands crowing Miya’s name proves torturous, and witnessing Miya’s amorous reactions to them is even worse.

_ I lost the gamble. _ He thinks, and considers trashing the magazines that had led him astray.

The decision nearly manifests, until a VC Kanagawa scout requests a friendly phone call. Kiyoomi accepts, aching to move on before he becomes more entangled, stranded without progress.

-*-

All bets are off, just like Miya’s clothes, and he advances - progresses.

The tie drops a second time, and that robust, faintly bruised chest shoves them both downward, trapping Kiyoomi beneath bare skin. Shuffling legs straddle his hips, while a soft membrane replaces the toughness of pec muscle, drowning him in vodka-flavored kisses that emulate both  _ touch _ and  _ fuck. _

Kiyoomi concedes defeat, satiated by the fulfillment of one too many fantasies. The two-dimensional Miya is no more, its authentic replacement pushing into his hardness with something sizable. He can only match both motion and fervor, clawing at the tangible back that had felt unreachable just minutes ago, seeking purchase along its firmness.

Elsewhere, an erotic soundtrack plays its final notes, but the man above him continues to invent rogue lyrics.

“I overestimated ya.” Miya detaches their mouths, the pearly whites of teeth crooked in his sneer. “I thought I’d need  _ ten _ days. But here ya are, breakin’ down and surrenderin’ just two fuckin’ nights in.”

The taunt only spurs on their movements below, sending Kiyoomi’s eyelids fluttering with each cycle. He barely notices his own belt coming undone, removed with the same dexterity that had served as surprise entertainment.

This very minute, he himself becomes an exhibition, as Miya sits up to pull down both slacks and underwear with a single grip, popping Kiyoomi’s erection into open air. Still in briefs himself, the setter pauses to admire the reddened swell - that clear response to his striptease.

Kiyoomi flushes at being ogled, his face adopting a similar shade as his cock. He moves to fidget with his collar, but before any tie unknots, a drawled request sounds, insistent yet not quite commanding.

“Leave the rest of yer suit on.” As he speaks, Miya’s stare wavers from Kiyoomi’s nudity to his covered half. “I get hard lookin’ at ya with clothes on  _ or _ off.”

The ease of the confession nearly sends Kiyoomi into another stupor, and he can only obey, arms falling slack along his sides. The next moment, compliance becomes pliant as Miya suddenly flips him over, lifting his bare ass into the air to start their second act.

He moans into the duvet as a shaft’s outline teases his entrance, and nearly bites a piece of cotton off when Miya’s hand reaches around. Fingers capture his dangling arousal with little mercy, giving it wicked drags that end with caresses at the tip. The careful yet confident touches feel infinitely more magical than pleasuring himself, every point of contact driving Kiyoomi’s instincts into a different nirvana. In his ascension, he presses back, rubbing the slit of his ass roughly against the wrapped bulge. With little warning, his precome begins to leak generously, offering its milky self like a reward.

A delicate squeeze nearly causes a burst, but the palm opens again just in time, moving to collect drips of essence before they stain the hem of his shirt. The same hand quickly draws back, spreading come throughout his most covert ring of muscle, before a slick finger begins to delve in.

Miya leans over his back right then, voice husky. 

“Hope ya don’t mind me improvisin’ - didn’t think we’d get here so soon, so turns out I wasn’t as prepared as I should’ve been.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t mind. The entire night has felt like improvisation, anyhow. He trembles in place of shaking his head, already familiar with that delightful invasion - just enacted by himself. In the end, lube had never been his only option in times of need, and something about being prepped by one’s own fluids had always felt  _ safest. _

His consensus triggers the start of something methodical. As more precome collects into one hand, Miya’s other utilizes it in deeper and denser plunges. These new digits are thicker than his, but still careful in their inaugural exploration. At each deliberate curl, Kiyoomi presses back harder, until the layers of dress shirt and suit jacket begin to strain against his arm. The discomfort, however, is far outweighed by much else -  _ so _ much else.

In due time, the delicious pressure from behind eases, and Miya applies it in another fashion, weighing down Kiyoomi’s entire body until he lies fully prostrate. His cock becomes sealed between his shirt and the duvet, gushing fluid officially ruining both. But no longer is there any thought of cleaning up himself, much less the clothes strewn throughout the room earlier. What prevails is Miya’s strength and control, maneuvering him into this paired dance - not as effortless as a striptease, but every bit as seductive. 

What had been the last piece of Miya’s clothing finally disappears, and old sensations of cotton change into that of veined flesh. There’s the sound of crinkling foil, then a few seconds of silence before a slick lather. Soon, Miya flattens his palms on either side of Kiyoomi’s shoulders, straddling with feral focus, wretched thighs in perfect alignment as they compress against an exposed ass.

“Ya wanna lose, Omi-kun?” The condom-clad cock slides vulgarly, centered and ready.

_ Ya wanna stay on the team? _

“Yes...I do.” Kiyoomi mumbles, wanting nothing more.

An animalistic howl unleashes as Miya pushes in, his fingers forming death grips as he ventures deep - all while Kiyoomi experiences the first stage of the little death. There’s a pause as they both catch their breaths, but soon come the thrusts, shallow and gradual at first. His tightness welcomes the new stretch, allowing the pace to accelerate until it matches Miya’s hotel chair grinds. As skin slaps together, Kiyoomi indulges in every friction, imagines that spine’s ruthless bends and snaps - just as how they had mesmerized earlier.

Arms slip under, wrapping around his jacketed torso, locking an already fixed body further in place. Before long, Miya’s kisses land on his nape as their hips pump and dance, adhering to not music but to their private rhythms.

Kiyoomi may not have joined in the earlier performance, but he is an active partner now, every movement and noise in sensual conjunction with the body enveloping him. He lies only half naked, but fully exposed - a years-long secret duplicated through this coupling, his brazen moans revealing exactly how he reacts to Miya Atsumu on many, many nights.

-*-

In the after hours, Kiyoomi turns beneath the covers of his dorm room, restless. The January 2016 issue sits on his nightstand, already perused once in a swift fashion. Rather than dreamscapes or counted sheep, his mind floods with one particular image, cleanly printed yet dirty in every way.

He sits up abruptly, first eliminating the dark, then snatching the magazine and flipping to the exact page.

Miya Atsumu, V. League Rookie of the Year, dons a suit in garnet, his eyes glittering like two additional gems. The pose is dynamic, captured mid-dance step, emulating the action-packed lifestyle he supposedly leads. Above it all, Miya’s expression is frozen with provocation, emanating even stronger alongside the plethora of red.

Kiyoomi thinks he enjoys him too much in this color.

The more he stares, the more his cock protests, begging to delight in the sight as much as his mind has. Reluctance trails a wandering hand at first, but dissipates as soon as touches creep beneath his waistband. One grip, and desire feeds into uncertainty, ripening it into lustful confidence. 

_ What would it be like to share his locker room? To be within reach? _

Under obligations as student, those are questions that would not be answered for years to come. But for now, Kiyoomi imagines being on set, watching Miya perform solo for the cameras - and then himself. Behind closed eyelids, he first envisions that expanse of red, then its illogical fade into the beiges of human skin.

“Mi--Atsumu...Atsumu…please…”

On some nights, strokes quicken, setting off shameless chants that become dangerously routine. On others, his come-dreched fingers find refuge in places more sacred, relieving him from the want of being filled.

Mornings invite a second ritual, in which sheets get thrown into the communal washer, and the magazine is buried once more at the bottom of his drawer. Soon enough, he starts every week with a personal bet, proposing that he can go at least ten days without retrieving those images from their hiding place.

Ten days then, ten days now.

Kiyoomi loses every time.

-*-

He loses, but finally also wins.

Miya keeps pounding into him from behind, the vigor sparking something heavenly in a thousand places at once. He’s claiming his own stake in this win, treating their union as a joint grand prize.

Between struggled gasps, blond bangs lower into Kiyoomi’s blurred vision, previewing the outpouring of another set of sultry words.

“This what ya think about? When ya look at my pictures late at night?” 

The allegation renders Kiyoomi unable to answer aloud, so he heaves back instead, letting his greed answer on his behalf. As Miya bottoms out, he releases a mix of groan and growl, going momentarily speechless before recovering with a wry chuckle.

“I look at magazines in bed, too, ya know.” He proclaims post-intermission. “But I hide mine better from Shouyou-kun’s visits.”

Speaking another’s name during sex is usually taboo, but this was much needed in revealing the source of Kiyoomi’s plight. A fuzzy memory of Hinata assisting with a leaking bathroom pipe emerges, inclusive of a scene where the redhead wanders into his bedroom, seeking a flashlight.

_ Atsumu-san, did you know that Omi-san... _

The imagined exchange disintegrates as Miya’s thrusts speed up, inching Kiyoomi closer and closer to the headboard. His nestled cock quivers as it rubs against what feels like a dozen textures, basking in sensations that rush him near a treacherous edge.

Even as eager hips run arrhythmic, hoarse words sound with punctual clarity.

“The February 2018 issue.”  _ Mmph.  _ “Cover story on the college MVP.”  _ Oh. _ “Like I said, Kiyoomi.”  _ Ah. Atsumu. _ “I enjoy ya with clothes on... _ or off.” _

The mere thought of Miya climaxing to  _ his _ photos sends a score of euphoria all over, not a single part from head to toe spared. Kiyoomi’s neck cranes as he sobs out, unable to suppress the very same detonations he had always set off within himself. Garnet red brightens to white, the color both crowding his vision and soaking into the duvet underneath.

“Fuck...yes...come for me, Kiyoomi.  _ Come on…!!”  _ Miya roars with satisfaction, his cock making a swift exit from where it had occupied. A few seconds pass before Kiyoomi feels liquid spray across his ass and the suit jacket’s hem, each splash accompanied by more groans of pleasure.

A naked body crashes at his side, sweat-drenched yet more desirable than in any photograph or vision. Miya frees throaty laughs towards the ceiling, the rich sounds broken occasionally by sighs of disbelief.

Kiyoomi makes feeble attempts to refill both lungs as he stares, captivated.

Eventually, Miya meets his eyes, issuing a look of sheer content.

“Believe it or not.” A hand reaches over to gently brush aside a few dark, damp curls. “My fantasies were always about how to  _ get ya _ in bed more than actually fuckin’ ya. I had  _ all _ these ideas planned for the next few days...didn’t think I’d only need to use the red suit from the shoot.”

“Shut up.” Kiyoomi grumbles weakly.

“Ya lost fair ‘n square.” The schemer shifts closer, expression softening. “So don’t think about leavin’ Osaka again, Omi-kun.”

Indeed, Kiyoomi has lost every gamble when it comes to Miya Atsumu, but defeat should never feel this gratifying, much less grant him so many rewards. Despite the graze of threads still covering him, and wetness everywhere he grasps, he thinks he wouldn’t dislike taking extra showers or washing sheets many times over - not if Miya continues being the answer to all his why’s and how’s and what’s. 

“So? Ya stayin’?”

Like Kiyoomi’s inner questions, these two new ones are as rhetorical as can be.

“Fuck you.”

“I think  _ I _ should be the one sayin’ that.” Miya snorts as his fingers dance to the side, gliding along a wrinkled shirt collar. “How about this, then? Ya want a second round...with no clothes on at all? I bet I can get right back on ya in just a few.”

Kiyoomi imagines discarded magazines replaced by discarded suits in their future, and wagers again, wholly prepared for loss.

“I bet you can’t.”

**Author's Note:**

> ok I admit it I just wanted an excuse to write atsumu stripping thanks for humoring me
> 
> other sakuatsu smutty goodness: [TMx3](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25787083) / [WSWM](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27443362) / [TCTC](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27567103) / [SUS](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29811360)
> 
> [bug me on twitter (18+ only)](https://twitter.com/asakuatsu) / [graphic for this fic](https://twitter.com/aSAKUATSU/status/1366547689278685190)
> 
> kudos/feedback always appreciated!


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